


The Candy Man Can

by ChuckleVoodoos



Category: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (2005)
Genre: But Then We Knew That Anyway, Charlie Is Over 18, Dark, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Magic, Which Really Does Not Make This Okay, Wonka's Sort of A Creeper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 09:40:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChuckleVoodoos/pseuds/ChuckleVoodoos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charlie's nightmares taste like cabbage and purple and too many voices that taste bitter on his tongue. Luckily, Mr. Willy Wonka's specialty is making sweet dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Candy Man Can

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. Um, so I just watched the Johnny Depp version of this, and um, this happened. I don't know, I just feel like he played Wonka a bit darker than Wilder did, and Wilder wasn't exactly all sugarplums and gumdrops either (although I still love him more than chocolate). And he seemed so lonely and emotionally-challenged, and sort of fixated on Charlie... Yeah, sorry, I'm a twisted SOB. At least Charlie seems...happy? And over 18, so... yeah. It's not squicky THAT way.

His nightmares taste purple.

 

There are flashes of bedtime stories that taste like cabbage, and even though he hates cabbage he still suckles at those parts, desperately, until they are ripped away.

 

Then there is gold foil wrapped around his skin, and it looks bitter and cold against the paleness of his too-thin wrists. It tastes bitter too, as he tries to bite the bindings off when they will not tear, and then he is drowning in the chocolate river and everything is warm and bittersweet and dark, so dark.

 

There is laughter, high and low all at once, and cool hands are pulling him free and holding him against the soft bosom of… somebody. They smell like flour and flowers and he breathes in deeply and cries sugar water. The person sings a song that he can’t understand but he knows every note to and shifts against him, and he breathes again, the smell of roasting cocoa beans and cinnamon and velvet, laced with the spice of magic. Deep magic that tickles his nose and his heart.

 

The person fades and he cries out. Fever, red-hot like cinnamon drops melting on his skin, sears through him. Sweat is sour and he prefers the sweetness of tears, he thinks, even though both hurt like lemonade on the wound. Now it is cold here, and yet bright. There are voices in the brightness, calling his name. Men and women, young and old, telling him that they love him, Charlie, it’s not his fault, please come back to them, please, they love him, baby, don’t go that way because-- _I love you, Starshine, so stay with me always._

 

That voice is so sad and desperate, and etched dear and deep into Charlie’s heart. The others are getting weaker if not quieter, like violins with their strings snapping (being cut, slow and sure, by lavender hands that smell like latex and love).

 

Cabbage and dust don’t make tasty candy. They’ll have to go, dear Charlie. Wouldn’t you prefer cocoa and kindness and lollies and laughter and whipped cream and warmth and _me_ , Charlie. You love me, don’t you? We love each other, and it will always be so. _I’ll make sure of it._

 

The foil gold is in his veins. When he tries to cut it out with a sharpened candy cane, there are gentle hands pulling his away, soothing words and heavy purple that chokes him softly and lays him to sleep. Not done yet, just a little longer, you’ll see. Everything will be better when you wake up, my dearest. Nothing will hurt you anymore, not even you. _I won’t let it._

 

The purple fills him to the brim and spills over in his eyes, his vision becoming a rock candy kaleidoscope of lilac and lavender and plum and mauve and grape and love, so much love. He can’t see or breathe from it, but he swallows it all anyway because those hands would never hurt him. _That’s right, darling, almost there._

 

“Wake up Starshine. The Earth says hello.”

 

Charlie gasps and cool arms catch him as he lurches up, steadying his quaking body. He tries to gasp out a sound, a question, but all that comes out are shattered, brittle sounds. He is held against the silk and velvet chest and he wraps his arms tight around his comfort and blinks away the sticky strands of nightmare.

 

“I’m so glad you’re awake. You were asleep for such a long time, sleepyhead, I was starting to get worried.” A kind voice admonishes him, and he thinks strangely that it should be higher, shouldn’t it? But it warms his cold thoughts as the cold arms cool his fevered skin, and he presses as close as he can against the ice-fire and breathes the deep and dark scent of chocolate until he can calm his racing heart.

 

“Mr. Wonka… what…?” Wonka giggles and tugs him closer still, until there is a perfect nose rubbing against Charlie’s own. _Eskimo kiss,_ he thinks, although it is not his own mind’s voice saying it. Someone else’s, soft, well worn with care and cares.

 

“Willy, silly, not ‘Mr. Wonka’. We’re partners, you and I.” Charlie nods, because yes, of course, this is Willy, not Mr. Wonka. He only calls him Mr. Wonka when he’s very angry with him, but that rarely ever happens. The last time he remembers, his voice was deeper, hoarser with care and age, but he was angry about Charlie and that can’t be right. He’s the only Charlie he knows, and why would he be angry about himself?

 

Willy is, about himself, sometimes, but they’re working on it. Really.

 

“What happened?” Charlie asks Willy, relaxing against him now that he knows he is in safe hands. The gloves aren’t even on, the soft-as-down fingers moving to card through Charlie’s hair and along his neck. He giggles as they brush a ticklish spot, and Willy grins at him, bright and light, and repeats the movement before continuing his exploration.

 

He only takes his gloves off when he’s making powerful magic. Or when he’s with Charlie.

 

“You were sick, my dear boy. Very sick. But don’t worry, I made you all better.”

 

“Oh.” Charlie exhales in relief. “You really can do anything, can’t you, Willy?” He asks with his usual enthusiasm for discovering another talent of his partner, and Willy’s smile curves against his hair.

 

“And for you, I would.” He says without missing a beat. Charlie chuckles at the childish sincerity of that remark, although he knows he’d do the same. Willy is so sweet, just like his candy.

 

“I had the strangest dream.” He says softly. Willy hums in question.

 

“Silly strange or scary strange? Those are the best and the worst kinds of dreams.”

 

“Both, I think.” Charlie says, slowly. “We’ve never made cabbage-flavored candy, have we?” He asks, a little uncertainly. Willy goes a little rigid against him like setting fudge.

 

“Cabbage?” He says a little distantly. “No, no, certainly not. Brussels sprouts lollies, maybe, and broccoli ice cream for naughty children, but not _cabbage._ Nasty, icky stuff. You hate it, don’t you?” He prods, jostling Charlie a little in question. Charlie hesitates, but eventually nods into Willy’s neck.

 

“I can’t remember ever trying it, but I’m almost certain I do. How odd is that?”

 

“Not odd at all! It shows you have good shoulders on your head. Oh. Strike that—“

 

“Reverse it.” Charlie finishes, laughing. Willy’s fingers trail along Charlie’s shoulders. The silk of his pajamas has fallen off of one, and he shivers pleasantly at the sensation against his bare flesh.

 

“You have good shoulders too.” Willy tells him, leaning to place a kiss against the bare skin behind his fingers. “And a good neck,” he kisses, “and a good heart.” The kiss he presses there is lingering, and Charlie wishes he was wearing no shirt at all so that he could feel those lips pressing against the cage of his ribs, close to his heart as all of Willy is.

 

“You have a good heart too!” He tells Willy firmly, because the wavering tone of the man’s words show his insecurity raw and open. “A perfect heart.” He places his own kiss against the cool crush of velvet and silk that hides Willy from him. He can’t feel the heartbeat through the layers, but then he never can. He worries for his friend’s health sometimes, for the beat must be very weak indeed if Charlie can’t hear it, but Willy assures him that he’s perfactually fine every time he asks.

 

“You are my heart.” Willy says with a rare brand of seriousness that Charlie savors like the fine butter scotch that he drinks with Willy for special occasions. He loves all of the exotic man, but these are the rare and fragile bits that he must take where he can, and he treasures them all the more for it. The arms tremble, squeeze him tighter. “So you must stay strong and healthy, for me. ‘Kay?”

 

“Okay.” Charlie agrees. He’s mumbling, which he knows Willy hates, but he’s getting sleepy again and he can’t seem to help it. “I’ll try.” He can’t stifle the yawn that escapes him. Willy looks up at him with dark eyes that spark and shimmer in the darkness.

 

“Oh, my dear boy, you must be dog-gone dog-tired, huh? You climb right back under those covers and get some shuteye. We’ve got a big day in the factory tomorrow, now that you’re all better. So much time, so little to do, now that you’re feeling better. Oh, I mean--You know what I mean.” Charlie nods agreeably. “The Oompa Loompas will be so thrilled to see you out and about. They were fretting something awful, just like me.”

 

“I’m sorry to make you worry.” Charlie tells him as he is bustled back under the covers by an industrious chocolatier. When Willy looks like he is rising, Charlie blurts out desperately, “Please stay with me.”

 

Willy gives him a slightly stunned look.

 

“Really? You… You really want me to stay? Here, with you?” Willy’s insecurities break Charlie’s heart sometimes. How this brilliant, amazing man can possibly think so little of himself at times, especially when it comes to him rather than his treats, baffles Charlie. He opens his arms as wide as they’ll go, trying to put all the protective warmth and tenderness he can into the smile he offers.

 

“I always want you to stay with me.” He tells his partner sincerely, because it’s true.

 

Willy swallows, hard, a bit like he’s downing the last bit of a jawbreaker. His eyes are wild, alight with a tentative hope and so much wanting.

 

“You’ve never asked me to stay with… so close.” He whispers the last word as though it is a great secret. This is true too, although for the life of him Charlie doesn’t know why. His memories are filled with sunshine-dappled memories of strolling the swudge with Willy, or laughing over a new candy idea, or even picnicking in the Glass Elevator and watching the stars come out, but always from a certain distance, and never in bed. There are hugs and held hands (and breaths) when their eyes meet too long, but never anything more than that.

 

He can’t figure what was stopping him, because he loves Willy more than candy and he thinks in the candy-maker’s eyes he sees the same. That’s saying quite a bit, on both sides. And just a few moments ago, those light kisses against skin. Those were new too. Why hadn’t he…?

 

“I’ve thought it all the time, before, and I’ll say it forever after, now.” He promises solemnly, because he will do anything he can to make Willy feel wanted. “You… you will, won’t you?” He bites his lip, because he hadn’t thought that Willy would say no, but there is a strange hesitance, a stiffness in his manner that looks a lot like a refusal. “I mean, if you won’t, that’s okay.” He adds, tremulously, trying to hide the pain that thought causes him.

 

“No!” Willy lurches towards him like stretched gum snapping together, hands finding Charlie’s shoulders and clutching there as though they are a lifeline in a strange reversal of their earlier position. “Charlie, my dear boy, it’s just… Are you sure?”

 

Charlie leans up. The hands do not stop him, but they also do not fall away or loosen their grip. Indeed, they become vice-like after the feathery kiss that Charlie presses to the cherry red lips before him.

 

A perfect first kiss, sweet and light and yet vibrant. A cotton candy kiss, Charlie thinks proudly, perfect for Mr. Willy Wonka.

 

“Sure as sugar.” Charlie tells him firmly, borrowing one of his partner’s favorite phrases.

 

Willy’s eyes slide shut for a moment as he licks his lips, a long, slow, sensual movement. Charlie tracks the movement with wide eyes. Then a Cheshire Cat smile is spreading over the older man’s face like a sunrise, and his eyes flick open and lock with Charlie’s. The rich royal purple of his eyes looks dazed and indolently delighted. The boy couldn’t look away if he wanted to.

  
“My dear, _dear_ Charlie.” Willy breathes, and then he is pushing Charlie back against the bed and devouring him like he is a particularly tantalizing sweet.

 

Willy’s teeth look broad and flat and perfect, yet when they nip at Charlie’s lip they are sharp enough to elicit a gasp from the boy and an open mouth that is eagerly entered by a wicked tongue. It figures that tongue is so talented; the words it so routinely curves around are mesmerizing and magnificent, so of course it is skilled in other areas as well.

 

Charlie whimpers into the sharp, sweet kiss and tangles his hands in Willy’s hair, trying to respond as well as he can given his inexperience. Apparently he does something right, because Willy makes a strangled, pleased sound and pulls back a moment later.

 

“You are… a _very_ quick learner, Starshine.”

 

“I learned from the best.” Charlie says modestly, grinning. They are both breathing heavily. Willy’s answering smile is blinding, and then he is diving back in. He tastes amazing, like sparklers and sunshine and the darkest chocolate and the lightest spun-sugar.

 

They kiss languidly for a while, but eventually Charlie’s tired brain informs him that as nice as this all is, he’s still recovering from being ill and he’s still sleepy, thank you very much. He pulls away just a smidgen and smiles at the flush he can see in Willy’s pale cheeks. It is the most ruffled he has ever seen the man, and the thought makes him beam. “Stay?” He asks again, his one syllable turning into two as it is punctuated with a yawn. Willy laughs.

 

“Golly, you must be bushwhacked if this isn’t keeping you awake.” He says mischievously, smirking at Charlie’s answering flush. “Of course I’ll stay.” He says, as though this is a clear answer and Charlie is silly for even asking, despite Willy’s earlier misgivings.

 

The man settles down beside Charlie, both curling towards each other so that their foreheads are pressed together and their smiles are nearly as close.

 

He’s already forgotten what he was dreaming about. The cabbage-dust-cold-love-scary-silly-strange-dreams are getting rarer and rarer. No doubt they were a symptom of his strange illness, which he promises himself he will ask Willy about in the morning. He will be glad to be rid of them; they always leave him with a shallow, sick feeling in his stomach and chest, like all of his insides have been scooped out and the rest of him has been scraped raw with sugar scrub. It feels a bit like the homesickness he feels when he and Willy leave the factory in the Glass Elevator for a while, except deeper and older like a childhood scar. He hates the feeling. 

Charlie is already drifting as the dregs of his dream fade away and his new happiness drugs his sleep-drunk mind. He thinks that he needs nothing else but this, Willy Wonka and the smell of roasting cocoa beans and toasting chestnuts curling around him. It has always been like this, just him and his partner and this wonderful factory for as long as he can remember. He thinks Willy must have built him the same time he made the factory, bones and bricks and mortar and mind, because for the life of him he can’t remember a time that isn’t tinged with a Technicolor tune and the warm smile of his friend. He wouldn’t mind if he were, really; he already knows that he belongs to Willy, body and soul. He hopes that he always will.

 

“Whatcha thinking about?” Willy whispers, sweet breath ghosting over Charlie’s lips in a tantalizing burst. Charlie is only something close to human—he leans just that extra inch and leaves just a butterfly’s kiss before he answers.

 

“You. Always you.” He whispers simply, because in the end it boils down to that, doesn’t it?

 

Willy’s smile is magic and slightly manic, as is the hard kiss that he presses against Charlie’s mouth.

 

“May your dreams be as sweet as the candy we make together.” Charlie smiles and squeezes his hand, which has somehow become entangled with Charlie’s own.

 

“I love you.” He mumbles, just on the twilight of dreams, and as the wispy beginnings of night’s imaginings wrap around him, he thinks he hears, a bittersweet whisper against his lips,

 

“I love you _more.”_

 

Charlie falls, and his dreams tonight are as sweet as Willy wished. Of course, all his dreams are sweet here in Willa Wonka’s Chocolate Factory; always have been, always will be.

 

_**"Who can take tomorrow, dip it in a dream? Separate the sorrow and collect up all the cream? The Candy Man can, oh the Candy Man can. 'Cause he mixes it with love and makes the world taste good."** _

 

His very sweetest dreams taste purple. 

 

__

**Author's Note:**

> I am so, so sorry. I need to go bleach my brain and write some PC fluff.


End file.
